


composed of Eros and of dust

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Category: Ballets Russes RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, everything i write is Fluff and Angst tbh that's how it is, the partner in the description is both Diaghilev and Tamara tbh I love a double meaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 13:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15220547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: "He likes to picture himself as he moves, to see what the audience sees; his dancing body moving like an automaton, his dream-self mirrored behind his eyes. In the bluish shadow-sheen of the unlit stage, he’s more a ghost than a flower, the spectre in civilian clothes."even the greatest dancers fall. sometimes, your partner catches you.





	composed of Eros and of dust

**_Le Spectre de la Rose_ **

**Paris, France**

**1911**

 

Vaslav is not, at first, aware that anything is wrong. Waiting backstage, just out of view, he closes his eyes and breathes, slow and quiet, the music swelling in his ears and throat. When he leaps on through the set’s open window, the audience always startles; a gasp rustling in from the wings, a collective sigh. He barely hears them, every fiber of his dancing body focused on movement beyond, every breath and heartbeat singing.

He and Tamara move in partnered synchrony. She glides gracefully along within and without his gently curving arms, the two of them touching fingertip to fingertip. Vaslav leaves their circle, floating out and up, legs flashing in leaps. The calm and giddy flush of the role overtakes him, suffusing his smiles and his softened eyes tilting heavenwards, lashes fluffed with kohl.

And then, suddenly, it is wrong. Cramping, sharp as a knife at the root of his thigh, driving into his flesh and tracing down his leg. His knee buckles before he can stop himself, mouth twisting with pain and broken concentration. Still whirling into a pirouette, his feet skid slightly. Panic hammers in his chest, twisting his heart. Tamara, well-trained, barely reacts; only her eyes widen slightly, her lips pursing. He cannot allow himself to falter, to lose control—Vaslav surges back towards her, following the motions he knows so well, pushing the pain away.

The pain is fading by the time he can leave the stage, his final leap cresting high and carrying him, falling, onto the mattress laid out for his landing. Only a dull, throbbing ache lingers, stinging slightly as he rolls upright. But the fear and guilt remain.

Vaslav bites his lip, trying to hold back tears. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving a long dark streak of blurred makeup. His body curls in on itself, and so do his fingers, scratching nervously at the base of his thumb.

After a minute, Tamara is backstage too, crouching beside him, her white lace costume glowing faintly in the darkness.

“What happened, Vatsa? Are you all right?”

He nods jerkily, words fleeing him as ever. He is not, of course, but at least the pain is leaving him.

“Don’t cry. Whatever happened, I promise you plenty of them didn’t notice. And the ones who did will forgive you a misstep.”

He shakes his head glumly, rocking back and forth to soothe himself.

“They will. I promise.”

She takes his hand in hers, carefully catching his fingers to stop him from picking at his skin.

“Don’t do that, Vatsa. You’ll hurt yourself.”

 Men from the stage crew are running about backstage, shooting them curious glances. Tamara leans in close, her voice hushed, just for him.

“Will you be ready to go on for curtain call? I can run and ask if they’ll hold the orchestra playing a little longer.”

With effort, Vaslav drags out his words.

“All right. I’m all right. We have to…”

He pulls his hand away to probe at his eyes, hesitantly.

“Your makeup is fine,” Tamara reassures him, pulling him up. She gives him a quick hug, then steps away to survey him. “Let’s go wait in the wings, hmm?”

The theater still rings with applause, all for the two of them. Tamara curtsies delicately, holding onto his arm, and he bows. She is radiant; he is numb and unsmiling.

Vaslav doesn’t hear what she says on the way back to their dressing rooms.

Inside, he peels off his dancing slippers, the cracked leather clinging to the soles of his feet, sticky with smears of blood. He stands meekly to be undressed, arms held out on either side. Vasili unpins all his silken petals, then strips off Vaslav’s bodysuit, leaving it crumpled on the floor— a rose-colored snake’s shed skin. 

He is nearly naked, quite exposed. There are little spots of blood on his chest from the pinpricks, like constellations.

Outside, the Paris sky will be dusky and beautiful, and Sergei will want him to come out to dinner. Unless, of course, because he has danced so poorly—perhaps Sergei won’t want him at all tonight.

He finds that he is almost crying again. Sniffling, he scolds himself. _Don_ _’t be such a baby._

“Vasili?”

The valet turns around from where he’s been laying out Vaslav’s good clothes.

“Sir?”

“Can I have my practice clothes out instead? I want to stay and do over behind the curtain.”

He swallows.

 “And can you let Sergei Pavlovich know to go on to the restaurant without me?”

Behind the fallen curtain, the stage is quiet. Faded down, new electric spotlights give off the same dim glow as the candles of provincial theaters and music halls he remembers from long-ago childhood performances. His family used to travel across the whole empire like nomads, from Kiev to Samarkand. At every stop, little Vatsa would perform in folk costume and then watch his parents’ dances with wide eyes from offstage.

Here at the Châtelet, the stage floor could use a good mopping, and he has to slip around a sawhorse left out in one of the wings. Vaslav runs his fingers along the inside of the plush velvet curtain, then pauses, _en relev_ _é._ He closes his eyes, arms floating upwards, then looks out, kicks out, and flies.

He likes to picture himself as he moves, to see what the audience sees; his dancing body moving like an automaton, his dream-self mirrored behind his eyes. In the bluish shadow-sheen of the unlit stage, he’s more a ghost than a flower, the spectre in civilian clothes.

Twice through, and three times; he staggers to a halt, winded, blinking sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes. Most unromantic, and yet three times he was perfect. It is a small victory, and a corresponding bubble of pride joins the low buzz of his anxiety.

In the empty dressing room, he runs a basin full of water. He stoops, gulping thirstily from the tap. Cupping his hands, he splashes his face, and, hopping up to perch precariously on a stool, carefully washes the blood and dust from his bare, blistered feet.

Damp and tired, he’s hunting for his oxfords when there’s a heavy knocking. With one sock on and one drooping from his fist, he opens the door to see Diaghilev, flamboyantly imposing in his jaunty tails, bright red-and-gold waistcoat, and glossy black bow tie. He’s every inch the elegant, aristocratic impresario tonight, and Vaslav feels a sudden, bashful need to lower his eyes.

“I thought you would go to dinner without me.”

“Well, I did, but I didn’t stay—I had drinks with the whole crowd at Larue’s and then came back to see about you. Tamara said you were feeling sick. Are you quite all right?”

He’s peering over anxiously, worried for his own health as well as Vaslav’s. Sergei hates the thought of contracting any illness more than is rational, so Vaslav knows how much it means that the other man wants to take care of him.

“It’s not anything catching, just nerves. I messed up, so I was sick. I had awful cramps; they made my legs fall. I’m so sorry,” he concludes miserably. 

Sergei sighs.

“I’m not angry at you, Vatsa. Even you aren’t infallible, much as we like to think so, and you salvaged yourself quite well.”

“You noticed, then. Everyone noticed.”

“Of course I noticed—I’ve seen you do it perfectly dozens of times. Not everyone has.”

He cups Vaslav’s face in one hand, his touch gentle and comforting.

“Look at me, please.”

Vaslav gazes up at him, wide-eyed, waiting on a word.

“One mistake is not a disaster. You’ve had better shows, and you will have more. And you still looked the part, by the way, very lovely.”

Now that he’s assured of Sergei’s forgiveness, a new worry creeps into Vaslav’s mind.

“What if Mikhail Mikhailovich is angry that I messed up his choreography?”

Diaghilev snorts, supremely disdainful.

“Fokine! I’ll handle Fokine, you needn’t fuss over _that_.”

He pats Vaslav’s cheek fondly.

“Poor little darling. Really, you needn’t fuss at all.”

Sergei leans in and kisses him playfully on the end of his nose. Rising up on tiptoe, Vaslav tilts his head back, inviting, and is rewarded with a more forceful kiss on the mouth. After a minute, Sergei pulls away, leaving behind only the faint, dizzying taste of cognac on Vaslav’s tongue.

“Do you know what they had in the bakery case at Larue’s? The most delicious caramel cake; I just had to have a piece, and then I had two wrapped up in a napkin to take away. I know how you love your sweets.”

“More like you love _yours._ _”_

Sergei smirks.

 “We’re both guilty there, aren’t we? I thought we could have our little snack back at the hotel, let Misia and Jeanchik hold the fort at Larue’s. Lord and Lady Misrule.”

Misia is Sergei’s best friend, the way Tamara is Vaslav’s. She’s an imposing woman, heavily built much like Sergei, with sturdy, well-shaped legs and rosy apple cheeks. She favors big hats, and somehow she manages to be both maternal and imperious. Misia’s Polish, just like Vaslav, and she likes to chat with him in the language they both grew up with. It’s partially to tease Sergei, who pokes his head into their conversations in mock pique, unable to catch more than a few words.

Jeanchik is Sergei’s pet name for Jean Cocteau, the foremost and favorite of their Paris allies.  This young poet and artist is almost precisely Vaslav’s age, give or take a few months. He’s the consummate social butterfly, silver-tongued and sharp-witted in the way Vaslav will never be, with elfin features and a shock of dark hair standing at attention on top of his head. Sergei treats him affectionately, but never flirts; he’s more like a fond uncle than a would-be lover.

 So there’s really no need for Vaslav to be jealous of the other young man—except that he is. Everything that vexes Vaslav seems to come easily to Jean Cocteau, and he doesn’t always like to share Sergei’s attention.

Cocteau and Misia, they’re both the sort of people who thrive at parties; they’re tirelessly extroverted, invigorated by wrangling crowds and as bubbly as champagne, catching hold of every unspoken nuance in a conversation. Vaslav, on the other hand—Vaslav abhors the idea of wading into a pack of loud, noisy people, and tonight, the impulse to retreat is even stronger than usual. The thought of heading immediately to the hotel, fortified by cake, and with Sergei all to himself—this new plan is extremely welcome. He sighs with relief, and slips his hand into Sergei’s.

Their coach is hot and stuffy, with the windows closed by Sergei’s preference even in summer. It’s another one of his eccentric compulsions. Vaslav presses his nose against the sticky glass, watching the streetlights go by. He feels very tired, his body left limp and ragged. There's no pain anymore, yet he is hollow, empty.

“Seryozha?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I put my head in your lap? I’m sleepy.”

“If you like.”

When he lies down, he can feel Sergei breathe in, sucking in his rather ample stomach to make room. Vaslav rolls over onto his back, looking up.

“I don’t mind. You’re soft.”

Sergei sighs and glances away, embarrassed, but his middle rounds out again, nudging Vaslav’s cheek. Vaslav snuggles in, closing his eyes. After a moment, he can feel Sergei’s fingers entwined in his hair, the broad base of the other man’s thumb stroking the arc of his cheekbone.

It is peaceful like this, companionable in the silence. He is happy, lying there, resting and petted, until the carriage jerks to a stop and the door swings open. The footman appraises them as Vaslav jolts upright, blushing, and Sergei lifts his chin, daring him to pass any judgment.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is drawn from the poem "September 1, 1939" by W.H. Auden, chosen because it references Nijinsky and Diaghilev, and also because I love it.
> 
> I wrote this about two years ago, and only recently felt confident enough to release it to the public. A lot of research and love for my subjects went into this story, especially the little details. I hope it feels real, and well-characterized. It was important to me to address not only the romance between the two men, but also the larger dynamics of the Ballets Russes circle, and to discuss Vaslav's idiosyncrasies and anxieties, regarding both his personality and his art, as well as the contrast between his onstage persona and his offstage self. 
> 
> To the small but mighty Ballets Russes fandom--enjoy, and please review if you can.


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